Natalie Whatley

Life is full of necessary evils. For the most part, I’ve made peace with doing some things I despise simply because not doing them isn’t exactly preferable.  We all have a list, and I bet bathroom cleaning would rate highly for most of us, but my beef today pertains to a chore that has been eating away at what could otherwise be potentially enjoyable hours for too many years: grocery shopping.

Many Moon Pies ago I enjoyed going out into the vast world – like my ancient female ancestors – picking berries and gathering supplies necessary to run the hut…uh, I mean household.  Now I detest the job.

In order to make it palatable, I schedule the misery. Yes, I check my vast social calendar and the weather (a beautiful day will not be wasted) before spending an entire day engrossed with the grocer. And I’m usually not motivated to make that date with destiny until the hunter of the hut, the man who brings home the bacon, makes a comment along the lines of our pantry resembling the cupboard of Old Mother Hubbard. Then I’m forced to make a day of it. Really.

I shop one store after breakfast, loading the always-has-at-least-one-square-wheel cart as full as I can before taking thirteenth place in line at the front of the store with 15-plus check-stands available, but only one employee. Sigh. A fun little tip, though: Watching fellow line-standers is far more entertaining than the sordid magazine covers.

Once payment is made, I haul my vast booty (referring to the spoils gained as opposed to my posterior) home where I delight in unloading it all once again. A quick lunch is my prize after it’s all put away. Then it’s time for round two.

Different store, same cart, I embark on the second half of pure drudgery. It’s further complicated by the fact that most people are out of bed by this point and this market is more crowded . . . by people stopping in the aisles to have reunions and/or carry on conversations via cell phone.

While I appear patient and ever-so-sweet, I’m raging on the inside. Don’t they realize they’re standing right in front of the item that correlates to number 37 on my list? I’m looking to check off through 105 and be home before the school bus.  

I’ve tried to include the entire family in the fun and festivities by asking for meal ideas and items they’d like to see stocked on our personal grocery shelves. Heck, I even invited people to come along on my trips. I need sound effects for my column. Do you hear the crickets chirping just above the silence? I heard it, too.

Oh well, I’m done for a couple of weeks, and now that I’ve vented I’ll not give it another thought.  But lettuce all remember not to tarry too long in the aisles. If you’re standing in front of item number 37, plastic cutlery, things could get ugly.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

My yard looks awful. Most of the plant life is crunchy, dull brown, and decaying. The only things lush and green are the unsightly weeds that somehow survived the hard freeze.  It’s an embarrassment given the “Yard of the Month” sign has graced the plot of land in previous years.

My personal yard man, Jeff, gathered all my potted favorites prior to the cold-weather event and put them in the shed. The one I most wanted to save (received it at the hospital after the birth of my now 17-year-old) fared quite well, but all of the others, not so much. I’m hoping to nurse them back to health.

The flowerbeds went uncovered as the major occupants are freeze-hardy, and the lesser inhabitants, well, I’ve wanted to dig them out and do something different for a good while.  It seemed harsh ripping up live plants while they still served their purpose, even if they were no longer what I desired. In a cruel act, I allowed them freeze to death. Until very recently, I busied myself to assuage the guilt and turned my eyes from the carnage upon entering and exiting my home.

Since February is knocking on our door, I began my customary early-spring cleaning. (We only get so much sunshine minus the sweltering heat. I’ll not waste one minute of it cooped up indoors once spring has officially sprung.) Worked like a mad woman inside, cleaning this, scrubbing that, gathering up items and clothing no longer wanted or needed, etc.  Long, boring story short, and since I refuse to clean kids’ rooms, I finished with time to spare.

A couple of nice sunshine-filled days prompted Scooter (my guard dog) and I to begin working in the yard – assessing what needed to be done by the resident yard man. (I should mention that Jeff LOVES for me to do this. He more appreciates it when I prepare a written list where he can check items off and track his progress. It’s the least I can do.)

The nice weather also provided me an excuse to stay outside post assessment and actually do some work. I pulled up the victims of my premeditated herbicide and began plucking the weed-infested areas.

True to my form, I started thinking of the parallels between the human condition and nature. (Yes, it’s sometimes exhausting being inside my head. Planning to spend some time thinking about whether or not I overthink things. ) Anyway, it occurred to me that over the course of many years I’ve blown a few of my own arctic blasts – froze a few things and left them to rot.

Through a great deal of reflection and a subsequent thaw, I realized that I had turned my back, chose not help those things recover, or bother to clear away the weeds that nearly choked them out for good.  My flowerbeds have been sprinkled with my blood and sweat on numerous occasions.  I can now add tears to the list.

The upside: as I care for my still-alive plants, I realize that a hard freeze doesn’t necessarily mean the end. Pruning away damage and providing tender loving care makes way for something fresh, new, and possibly better than what was there before. And since I remember how quickly I frosted a few things, I have the added comfort of knowing that rapid freeze-drying actually prevents decay and spoilage – what’s underneath has been perfectly preserved.

So don’t be alarmed if you see a woman watering flowers with tears on a sunny day, she’s pouring out her heart and melting some frosty layers away.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I always grin when Jim Finley refers to his real newsman office as “The Bat Cave”.  But I’ve got him beat! (And he has me befuddled. I was specifically instructed NOT to address him as “Mr. Finley”. His column last Tuesday, inspired by Senator Barbara Boxer D-California, invited us all to address him in a more dignified way –Mr. Finley would suffice. Yes, sir.) 

The Whatley Estate has been transformed, and all I knew about traversing its interior has to be re-learned using sound waves to locate objects. Scientific folks call that echolocation.

A shrew is a small mouse-like mammal with poor eyesight that emits a series of ultrasonic squeaks to navigate its habitat, or a woman who finds fault and has a nagging temperament.  Feel free to form your own opinion on which one I’m mimicking.

Recall last summer when I complained about my electric bill that more than tripled (our usage didn’t) and how I dumped my former electricity provider for playing games with the rates. Once I got settled in with my new provider and a locked-in rate, I began looking for other ways to beat the summer heat.

First order of business was turning up the thermostat a few degrees.  Those not responsible for paying the bills commenced with the “it’s hot” whining.  I explained how “hot” was relative and asked if they’d also like to be hungry; if only man could live on air-conditioning alone. 

Jeff installed solar screens on the area receiving the most complaints (the upper east wing) with commendable results –so much that I had the brilliant idea of covering all 33 windows! 

This spring, before the sweltering heat made its early arrival, Jeff complied with my request. The Whatley Estate, with its rooms once bathed in sunlight, went dark. I caught window-cover man measuring the last sources of natural light.

“Don’t worry about the north side,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask why all of the sudden I was eager to have him stop seven windows shy of completion. Trying not to rouse his suspicions I added, “Really, it’s fine. The north side is shady anyway. It’d just be extra work. Here’s something cold to drink. Take a load off, and I’ll put everything away.”  I may give up writing for acting.

Now, the flick of a light switch causes me to wince. My eyes no longer want to adjust from dark to light. Daylight burns. My lateral incisors seem to be lengthening. And people are starting to wear garlic necklaces around me.

With the solar screens, blinds, and curtains, I wake not having a clue what time it is. When I get up, I bump into things. KABAM! My shins will never be the same. Living in constant darkness has made my vision less keen, but my hearing –incredible! Jeff, I can hear you snickering. Gosh, Batman, that’s not very polite.  When I find you . . . BAM!  BIFF! SOCK!

I don’t know if we’re saving any money, or not. Seems like in lieu of the air-conditioner running we’re turning on lights. I’d compare last summer’s usage if I could, but right now I’m hanging upside down by my feet. All the blood is rushing to my head, and I can’t see worth a darn.

Keep laughing . . . I’ll use the sound waves to find you!

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

There’s a long-standing tradition at The Whatley Estate regarding birthdays. The honoree gets the home-cooked meal and dessert of his or her choice. Up until a couple of weeks ago when Jeff celebrated another turn through the calendar, the cuisine requested has been well within my culinary abilities. I guess he decided to take advantage of the fact that I’ve been in a mood to challenge myself lately.

I knew I was in trouble when he got a cookbook and started thumbing through it. For 18 years the man asked for cheesecake; the toppings varied, and there was a “turtle” rendition thrown in at some point, but it doesn’t get much easier than no-bake cheesecake. (Some people don’t do windows; I don’t do cheesecake that has to be cooked in a spring-form pan.)  “Oooh, this looks GOOD”, he said pointing to “Italian Cream Cake”.  “If that’s what you want,” I said having no idea what I’d just committed to.

I didn’t give it another thought until the next day when I read the recipe and made a list of what to buy at the store. I recognized all of the ingredients, but started worrying about the long and winding road that led to the finished product. It was quite possible I was in over my head.

The dear man in my life, who on a whim one day whipped up a lemon meringue pie fit to grace any magazine cover, broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter when I told him I needed an “egg separator”. (I wasn’t home when he made that pie, and I questioned witnesses to confirm it wasn’t store-bought.  When those witnesses started explaining how to make meringue, I accepted my inferior dessert-making rank.) “You don’t need a gadget to separate eggs”, the man who has a tool for everything snickered. Hmmpphh!  He stopped laughing long enough to give gadget-less egg-separating lessons. I wanted to crack the practice eggs on his head.  

The big day arrived, and I was confident in my new skill. Everything was creaming together quite nicely until I got to the part of beating five egg whites stiff. Fork in hand I whipped them for several minutes to the point of a blister on my middle finger and quivering muscles. Stopping for a needed break, I realized I didn’t know what stiff egg whites looked like. I searched images online and found plenty of examples. Mine weren’t nearly there yet, and I also noticed an electric appliance in many of the pictures.  I glanced at my blister, chuckled, and got the electric beater out. Wow! Stiff egg whites in seconds.

Things went well from there; three cake pans full of sweet goodness went in the oven. I should have taken a picture of the aftermath. Have you ever seen a kitchen where a three and five year-old “made breakfast for mommy”? Multiply that by 1,000, and you’ll be close to what my kitchen looked like. Unlike Mr. Meringue, I don’t clean as I cook. It looked like two bombs went off, and I was spattered with gooey shrapnel. 

Nearing Jeff’s arrival time, I pushed through fatigue and the wound on my finger to clear a small spot for icing. Butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla, and chopped nuts: the tastiest concoction known to man.  Putting the fourth spoon-full in my mouth, I realized I needed to save some for the cake.

The three layers came out of the oven smelling divine; they cooled while I continued cleaning. With the kitchen down to a one-bomb-went-off level of cleanliness, I centered everything on the cake plate and finished my masterpiece. It looked pretty good! And in time we learned it tasted great.

Italian Cream Cake

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

I’ve contracted a slithering case of the heebie jeebies. If you’re in snake-oil sales and have a potential cure, you know where to find me.

I’m always thrilled when something semi-exciting happens in my life –gives me something to write about—but I’d gladly skip this “episode” to regain my peace of mind.

Since I spent last week recounting my fear of public speaking and how what psychologists refer to as “immersion therapy” forced me to get over it, I’m embarrassed to say that another of my fears has taken the spotlight this week. I will not immerse myself in this one.

I grew up with brothers and now have two boys of my own; reptiles, regardless of whether I like them or not, have always been a part of my life. I’m not the pass-out, run-away-shrieking-at-the-mere-sight type, but I keep my distance.  (Imagine my horror when my younger son “clipped” lizards to his ears and took great delight in freaking me out with his dangly “earrings”. They were alive and biting his ears to hold on!)

The mighty hunter... all wore out

He earns his keep by bringing lizards, skinks (which I recently learned emit a toxin from their tails that make cats sick; Shadow hasn’t made the connection between his apparent stomach upset and what he dined upon), and small snakes (no longer than six inches) to the mat at the back door. I’ve watched him catch his prey.  He carries on as if he’s fighting an anaconda before taking a victory lap around the yard with something small hanging from his teeth. 

“Now that’s a snake!”  Words I never want to hear uttered inside my house again. “It must be 18 inches long!” I began feeling faint. Eighteen inches, 18 feet, one in the same when we’re talking snakes.  I had been in that bathroom barefooted a couple of times that morning. How long had it been there? Had that thing made its way across my toes while . . . You would have heard me across town, and Jeff would be repairing sheetrock. “It’s a harmless garter snake,” he said holding it far too close. I don’t care. 

I’m telling you this story in the event you end up on my jury after I’m hauled in for assault. Jeff has been very busy at work this week and hasn’t had the time or energy to be up to any of his usual shenanigans. Know that I can finish the man’s sentences; he will capitalize on my fragile mental state for amusement.

If you see him with a black eye it’s because he thought it would be funny as I dozed off to recreate what a slithering snake would feel like making its way up my leg or the side of my face. I know you all will understand and do the right thing when I stand before you to account for my actions.

Jeff, don’t mess with a girl suffering from a case of the slithering heebie jeebies. She will strike!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

While a writing gig such as this one is loads of fun, there are times when the thorns of the rose garden we call life distract me to the point of having nothing amusing, meaningful, or sarcastic to say.

I know many don’t like sarcasm, but like a T-shirt in my possession says, “It’s one of the services I offer.” I can smell irony miles away, and have been known to taunt people. It doesn’t help that I’m married to someone who has the ability to hold his own in verbal sparring matches – keeps my skills honed.

But lately, the briers of real life – cleaning dog snot off the floor (poor Scooter and his allergies), mountains of laundry, kids’ homework, attempts at meal planning/grocery shopping and teen angst – are working against my creative process.  I get my best ideas while performing manual labor and/or worrying about things over which I have no control. There’s been plenty of that, and . . . nothing. Well, nothing I should say out loud – you’d think far less of me.

As I fold socks . . . OK, socks aren’t really folded, but you know what I mean. And, raise your hand if “folding” socks for several people makes you nutty. All my guys are wearing the same size now; sometimes it’s difficult to determine the owners. I’ve heard, “Buy all the same, and divide them up.” Won’t work.  Some people, I’ll refrain from naming names, pull theirs off in the strangest places and miss having them laundered. That would leave one person, who provides 99.987% of the family income, without clean socks. (Yes, I did the math. And the answer to your burning question: No, money doesn’t come with all this fame.) He wouldn’t stand for it. Another well-meaning person said to use a permanent marker and put initials at the toe. We weren’t looking ahead or thinking of socks when naming our boys. They all have the initials JLW. Maybe I could try numbers.

Anyway, I got off on a tangent, but was about to say that while I fold socks, and other items for that matter, some crazy stuff pops into my head. Most of the time, things come to me in the form of questions.  If I knew the answers my mind would rest and allow more inventive thought, or at the very least make me feel sane. I’ll provide below a sampling of what goes on inside my noggin, but I must warn you: these are weighty matters.  

Will my children ever brush their teeth without being hounded? And, do at least a decent job before the third round? What is that smell in my son’s room? Why is there soap smeared all over the shower walls? Why is the door on the hamster cage, with an opening large enough for the cat to squeeze through, open when kids are away at school? Isn’t that paper on the kitchen counter the homework we worked on until eleven last night? How many days can my son wear his contacts without removing them for cleaning before a nasty infection, or heaven forbid, blindness sets in? Who ate the last Pop-Tart and left the empty box in the cupboard?

Minor annoyances?  Absolutely. I try not to dwell on them, lest they become real thorns in my side and cause me to miss smelling the roses.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Last week will go down as one of the best spring breaks ever.  Why? Because the only item on our agenda was to do what suited us in the moment, even if the desired activity was inactivity – a rare treat. In the absence of all the things that devour our time, not filling that void was akin to walking in an unfurnished room – one that awaited the homey feeling only a family can provide. And not one of us cared if the drapes didn’t coordinate with the rug or if the sofa didn’t “go” with the chairs.   

The much-needed break started out with cold, raw weather that was not at all what spring breakers hope for. However, I was thrilled. On a couple of those nasty days, we were slothful and pajamas were the uniform. I didn’t fight the soft rain, dark skies, or warm beds; I couldn’t. I was nearly comatose, but lucid enough to enjoy laziness not normally allowed by three children, a home, a dog, a cat, and two hamsters.  

Simultaneous with the clearing of the weather, we were refreshed by our mini hibernation and ready to get out and enjoy whatever the days would bring. The slate was clean; we were running the schedule instead of the reverse.  It was a feeling money can’t buy, and thank goodness for that as I’m certain our elected leaders would find a way of taxing it otherwise.

Early on, Jeff and I enjoyed a quiet lunch at the new Arby’s (food and service were excellent) followed by home-project shopping at Lowes – without children. Pure bliss!   

We took the kids bowling one evening. I broke 100 (a personal best for me even with the bumpers up) and beat the pants off the whole family with my high score of 116! I wasn’t able to perform as well and came in last on the following game, even with bowling-league extraordinaire Paul Barrow giving me a few pointers from the lane beside ours.  

On St. Patrick’s Day, we tried our luck on the greens of the Chambers County Golf Course with our two youngest children. When the cold fog burned off it was a beautiful day . . . no, it was a perfect day. There’s nothing like the serenity on a golf course.  I messed it up at one point when my ten-year-old daughter made an incredible shot. I jumped out of the cart clapping and yelled, “Great shot!” It wasn’t that prissy golf clap, either. Apologies to those who suffered during my breach in etiquette.

One day, we took in a couple of movies at our leisure, while on another the kids played outside until dark. Yard work was done, cars washed, lemonade drank, and sunshine abounded. No worries, no schedule, no clock hands directing our every move.

In this age of fast-tracking everything, it was heavenly to not only slow down, but stop altogether. By taking a break from obsessing over daily minutiae, the economy, bad news, crisis du jour, I’m reminded that life’s pretty darn good . . . even on a bad day.

I highly recommend spending time filling empty spaces . . . I promise you’ve got nothing better to do.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I’m de-lighted (Christmas lights have once again been removed from my home without injury) to announce that as of this writing I’m spending my first day home alone since December 18, 2008.

Since I received a package of chocolate bon-bons for Christmas, it’s mighty tempting to take up residence on the couch and consume the whole bag. But I’m suffering from a head injury and to be quite honest I’m afraid to sit still. I could fall asleep and . . . I’ve got a bit of a headache, and some dizziness, but through slightly blurred vision I was able to make out two pupils of equal size.  My bell has been rung, so I’ll busy myself with this until I’m feeling steadier.

Shortly after Christmas, I got the feeling my entire home needed to be de-cluttered. I passed through each room, garbage bag in hand, and removed the gift packaging strewn about the entire house. With trash removed and new gifts taking up space, I then searched out all the items that were no longer wanted/needed. That brings me to today, where upon looking around I notice a good deep-cleaning is needed in a variety of spots.

This pattern repeats itself annually. I always get the spring cleaning bug a little early, and it works well because when spring blossoms the last place I want to be is indoors cleaning.

Getting back to how I injured myself, I must confess that I have a variety of housekeeping mishaps that always amuse me in hindsight. This one will be no different, but I’ll probably wait for the bump on my noggin to disappear before I laugh.

I was vacuuming the lower stairs with the hose and stair tool while the vacuum rested on the landing above me.  I’m seasoned at this type of work and in my 14 years of doing it I’ve never had a problem. However, I was a wee bit aggravated over a morning-time encounter with one of my offspring and was probably not giving the job the attention it required. In my zeal, I pulled too hard on the hose and the 22 lb. (I weighed it) vacuum came crashing down on my head. Ouch!

I’m now very interested in the nine pound Oreck vacuum that I regularly hear advertised. (I’m living with one teenager, one frightfully close, and a third not far behind. I’m told it could be years before the aggravation subsides. Note to Jeff: If you want to spend your golden years with me, a lighter vacuum is essential.)

As amusing as the above may sound, that event doesn’t come close to trumping the day I got my finger stuck in the fabric softener dispenser of the washing machine.  I stood joined with the washer for quite some time before I fully appreciated my options which included waiting for someone to come home and call the fire dept., or suffering what medical folks call a “de-gloving” injury. Painfully, I opted for the latter.  I wasn’t fully dressed. Hey, I didn’t want the bleach I was using to clean the grime ruining even my nasty house-cleaning attire.  

The man who loves me in spite of my homemaking foibles offered to pay an outside cleaning service back before the kids were all in school. I refused because I’d want to clean before they came, and what would be the point? He upped my life insurance.  Now, as I age and get over myself and the mess my clan makes, I’m beginning to rethink that decision. But the kids are all in school now, and I supposedly have it maid . . . someone should have cleaned up before I got here.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I know it’s a little early, but Happy Thanksgiving to you all. The days leading up to Turkey Day are always eventful for me. By Friday it will be necessary for me to be fully sedated – tryptophan in turkey does the trick. Just in case you’re in the same boat or don’t care much for turkey, tryptophan is available in other foods. I eat chocolate, oats, eggs, and pumpkin seeds in conjunction with turkey for maximum benefits. It’s legal, and I could argue medically necessary should I be found driving under the influence.

I’m sure you’re wondering what could possibly cause me to anesthetize myself in such a way. The unfortunate truth is that I have no one to blame but myself.

It all started many years ago when as a young wife I purchased a small artificial Christmas tree for our first home. I couldn’t wait to decorate. Jeff grumbled and was less than enthusiastic, but put it together solely to humor his bride. I think he also realized it was only the beginning of my dragging things home for him to assemble.  Like most men though, he couldn’t resist the payoff of a gushing female impressed by his abilities.

While I decorated the tree, he watched and uttered a “bah-humbug”. I put Christmas knick-knacks and decorations all around our humble dwelling. He rolled his eyes.

A couple of years later, while expecting our first bundle of joy, we moved to a bigger place. Christmas rolled around, and in honor of the son who would be born shortly after Christmas Jeff put the tree together, helped decorate, and adorned the outdoors with as many lights as he could. I tear up just thinking about it. He was a changed man.

With a two-year-old in tow, we purchased what I lovingly refer to here as the Whatley estate. It came with a yard, trees and two floors of space we thought we’d never fill.  I didn’t know it at the time, but Jeff was planning Christmas displays long before the papers were signed.  Had I known how many light bulbs were burning in his head, I most certainly would have opted for a one-story home.

Since 1995, I’ve spent the better part of November and December standing, phone in hand and ready to dial 911, as Jeff hangs thousands of lights in places no other human being would dare travel. People drive by, see him way up in the trees or hanging off the side of the house aligning each tiny bulb, and shake their heads. “He’s crazy!” they hollered.

It became so elaborate over the years that it took weeks to complete. It was beautiful, but we’re talking so many lights that turning on certain indoor appliances tripped the breaker! After many nights of being unable to blow dry my hair after a shower, I issued edict No. 97-243a which states all outdoor Christmas decorating must be completed by Thanksgiving weekend, or not be done at all.

My through-the-back-door attempt to appeal to his logical male brain was that it was too much work to have it up for only three weeks. Much to my surprise, he agreed. Sweet victory! I should have known there was a retaliatory strike coming when my smug attitude over having won that battle didn’t bother him in the least. Now, I must bow to The Master of “I don’t get mad, I get even.”    

Every year, Jeff takes the week of Thanksgiving off.  He’s home with me ALL DAY, EVERY DAY dangling from all sorts of precarious locations. I stand at the ready, with the full knowledge of who brings home the bacon and pray it won’t be the year he takes a tumble. He delights in my worry, and gets a real charge out of making some awful noise and seeing how quickly I’ll come running. Thanks, Jeff, for giving me a real turkey story! 

© 2008 Natalie Whatley 

There’s a new man in my house. This is on top of my husband, two sons, and a male dog. My daughter and I are surfing a testosterone tidal wave! I’m trying not to become too attached (which I never in a million years thought would be a problem – I don’t need one more living thing to take care of), because I’m hoping his loved ones are looking for him, or he’ll just decide to go home one day. The prospects of either scenario playing out seem to be dwindling.

This story has somewhat of an odd beginning, or maybe it’s just a very strange coincidence, but “Shadow”, the completely black cat, with the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen, showed up at the Whatley estate Halloween morning.  He’s young, possibly four-six months old, and I have no idea where he came from. However, he seems pretty convinced of where he’s staying.

When I went out to put my daughter on the bus that Friday morning, he ran out from the flowerbed and melted into my little girl. It seemed they’d always known each other. It was rather sweet, and I recognized the “can we keep each other?” look in both pairs of eyes.  We petted him while waiting for the bus, and I set him back in the flowerbed on my way in – only to have the same scenario play out all over again when I took the next child out to the bus stop.

 I told my soft-hearted son the kitty must be someone’s beloved pet, as he seemed well socialized and sported a cute little collar with a bell. Kitty was returned to the flowerbed after my son’s departure. I went about my day not giving dear kitty another thought. He’s not the first, and I’m reasonably certain not the last, to view my flowerbeds as a litter box. He’d be moving along soon enough. 

Greeting my daughter that afternoon as she got off the bus, I was about to answer her question regarding the cat’s whereabouts when he sprang from the flowerbed and began climbing up her leg. She remained outside with him until her brother came home. Minutes later, I was confronted by two very serious children concerned over the fate of a small black cat left to fend for itself on Halloween night. Ugh! Who taught them to think things through in such a manner? We put kitty and a dish of water on the back patio…just to keep him safe Halloween night. 

An ensuing cold front, swarms of mosquitoes, and neighborhood cats bent on making my visitor understand that MY backyard was THEIR territory, caused me to invite him indoors.  I’ve since learned he’s house-broken, loves to play, and that curling up in the arms of a human is just about all he wants in life…well, besides food.  He has a very healthy appetite and has grown noticeably during his two week stay.

“Found” signs have been posted. I’ve asked around, checked the “The Baytown Sun” and called Baytown Animal Control to see if anyone is looking for him. I don’t know if he wandered away from home and was unable to return, or if he was a stowaway in the back of truck and rode too far. I can’t imagine someone dumping him; he’s just too darn sweet.

He did make some pretty big waves when I forced him to bathe.  In time he’ll realize (they all do) that boys and big waves don’t scare me. I’ll happily reunite him with his original family. You all know where to find me. Pounce on it quickly because I’m catching myself humming Sinatra’s version of “Me And My Shadow”.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley